


Dream Come True

by Honeybee_Bub



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 19th Century, ??? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cultural Differences, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, F/F, F/M, Gen, Geographical Inaccuracies, Geographical Isolation, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Please Don't Hate Me, Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Tahiti, Trauma, but not really, kind of, more like:, sorry this is painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29832471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeybee_Bub/pseuds/Honeybee_Bub
Summary: they made it--almost.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde, Karen Jones/Sean MacGuire, Kieran Duffy/Mary-Beth Gaskill
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	Dream Come True

**Author's Note:**

> for frances ♥️

They had established a solid system. 

Exports to Aotearoa — sometimes known as New Zealand, to Queensland — of Australia, to Papua New Guinea, to Peru and to Ecuador, and all along the southwest coast of Mexico. With Strauss' help, the paperwork was taken care of; all they had to do was farm. 

Tend to the rich soils and grainy sands, nurture the fruit-bearing trees, and worship the land they walked on. 

Farming fruit they had never seen outside of scribbled concept art was harder than they expected. 

How were they supposed to know how it would taste? Were they juicy? How would it grow and flourish? How would it smell? An aroma of a tangy splash or a smooth sweet? How would they manage? 

_With help_. 

They worked with the natives: Tahitians. They worked with the colonists: Frenchmen. A group of lowly criminals, running from the New World's laws — exporting mangoes from a small island in the middle of French Polynesia. 

_Tahiti_. 

Speaking English, speaking French, speaking te Reo — _Hello_ , _Bonjour_ , _la Orana_. 

Every single thing was falling into place. 

_Who wouldda thought?_ John smiled, brushing his hand against Abigail's. 

They all wore lighter clothes: silky, flowing fabric allowing their skin to breathe under the blazing sun. The most noticeable thing — their bodies were as light as their attire, no heavier than the breeze. 

The weight that burrowed in John's chest over the years had sunk like an anchor plummeting down, right through his feet. Its rusted metal chain breaking on the way down and withdrawing entirely from his frame. 

The lukewarm wind tickled his nose, and the cool salted waves whirled around his ankles. 

John breathed easy. 

Jack dug in the sand next to a wiry boy named Tamaroa; long wispy hair tucked behind his ears as he shovelled sand around, giggling with his son — only a few years younger. 

Just behind Jack and Tamaroa, Josiah's boys — Tarquin and Cornelius — splashed in the waves along the shoreline, seeing who could shove each other in the water first. 

Mary-Beth was writing under the shade of trees, Kieran's head resting in her lap. 

Tilly, Javier, and Mac worked with a young woman, Heiura, who had a big, all-encompassing smile full of warmth, but no teeth. Damp, rusty mud and soils caked their nails. 

Mr. Pearson finally learned how to make something edible. 

With the help of an older local man, Varu — a chosen grandfather by many, Pearson pulled together meals that melted in everyone's mouths. In the _good_ way. Reverend Swanson aided him on late mornings when Pearson ran behind, his hands now free of tremors. 

Miss Grimshaw's blows became less frequent. French rolled surprisingly smooth of her tongue, and she enjoyed listening to the natives talk — finding new ways of communication each day. 

She no longer got her point across with a fist. 

Sadie Adler, Davey Callander, and Bill joined the local natives in patrolling areas colonized by the Frenchmen, keeping an eye out for young Tahitians as they hiked on the outskirts of their territory. Sadie's face had softened in the recent months; Bill drank less and less. Davey's coloring had returned — his face full and rosy. 

Lenny read to young boys and girls, with Jenny perched at his side — sometimes with a kid snuggled up in her lap as she stroked their hair. 

Karen was fuller, Sean at her side — they would have another mouth to feed soon. 

It would be the first time in years that another mouth was a _joy_ , not a _burden_. 

Molly often linked arms with Vaipoe — the two women were inseparable. Vaipoe twirled Molly's curls into a crown of braids atop her head, and Molly slipped a string of pearls over Vaipoe's neck, thumb stroking the younger woman's warm brown cheek as she did. 

Molly never used to smile like that. 

A holler snapped John from his thoughts, beckoning him. 

Abigail took his hand, leading him to the commotion's source. 

"John? John, my dear boy, come!" Dutch called out, his voice cracking with glee. "Everyone gather 'round! Come on, now . . . quickly!" 

"First bud's a bloomin'," Micah said, jutting his head towards a plump mango — a fresh green with luring golden tones, speckled with warm red-orange patches. 

"Ripe and ready," Hosea agreed, scratching at the cotton white scruff growing in patches along his jawline. 

Jack snuck between Abigail and John, peering up at Dutch. 

John ruffled Jack's hair and squeezed Abigail's hand. 

She squeezed back. 

John looked to where Arthur stood, his hair long with thin braids by his ears to keep the loose strands out of his face, and Charles comfortably next to him. Arthur smiled at John, his eyes bright. 

It was the happiest he had seen his brother in years. 

That, alone, made everything worthwhile. 

His _family_ — safe and happy — it was all John could ever ask for. 

"Hurry your sorry asses up," Dutch hollered to the rest of the gang. 

The local Tahitians and the rest of the Van der linde Gang gathered around, eagerly awaiting the plucking of their first tree-bearing fruit. Once the crowd had settled, Dutch pulled down the mango, stem snapping, and beamed out at them. 

His hair was longer, and his eyes — a little brighter. 

Dutch held out the round and lumpy, but scrumptious fruit out like a prize on display, for all of them to see. "We did it!" 

They cheered — their _whoops_ , _hoots_ , and _hollers_ rushing out in waves — and Dutch took the first bite, skin stuck in his teeth and juice gushing out the corner of his mouth. 

The cheers died down at at Dutch's facial expression. 

Hosea rested a hand on Dutch's shoulder, "Dutch?" 

"Oh, my Lord-" Dutch wrinkled his nose. 

"What's wrong?" Hosea was baffled, visible concern washing over him. 

"These are . . . I-" Dutch paused, contemplating. "I hate mangoes." 

Laughter erupted around him, and Dutch's face was tinged pink. 

"You _what?!"_ Hosea blundered. "You've gotta be kiddin' me!" 

"No, no, I am dead serious, Hosea." Dutch gave him a weary look. "My _God_ . . . these are _horrid_." 

_Oh, come on, Dutch_ , John thought, grinning wildly. _What's there not to like about a damned fruit?_

Hosea snatched the mango from Dutch, a chunk bit out of it, and waved it at the man, shouting, "Are you the dumbest man alive?" 

"Obviously." Dutch threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. "Look who I'm with!" 

Hosea huffed and slugged him on the shoulder, trying to force down his smile and continue shooting Dutch a disgruntled look. 

The older man took a cautious bite of the fruit. "You're dramatic, Dutch. They're perfectly fine." 

"After all these years, Dutch-" Arthur said before bursting out laughing. "-and you can't stand a damn mango!" 

Dutch chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face as laughter continued to bubble up around him — jokes ensuing. 

John felt light-headed and out of breath, his cheeks tingling from having his face pulled tight. He looked around at his family — completely overwhelmed with joy — all of them doubled over and wheezing from laughing a little too hard for a little too long. 

_This is it_. 

John let out a slow breath, feeling elated. 

_We made it_. 

John cast a glance at Arthur, who had his face tucked into the crook of Charles' neck as he snorted. 

His eyes wandered over the crowd — and he caught Micah's eye. 

Micah was staring at him, a blank expression on his face. 

Almost staring through him. 

John could hear his croaking, jerky cackle, but the man's face was still. 

The Tahitian summer breeze cooled, sending a shiver down his spine. 

John could still hear Arthur laughing — his hoarse, wheezy chortle that brought tears to his eyes every time he was sent into a fit. 

John's body jerked upright — Arthur's laughter still reverberating through his head, and tears blurring his vision in the dark of his room. 

Of _their_ room. 

A lump caught in his throat, and John bit down on his knuckle. 

The bed creaked. "John, sweetheart?" 

Abigail's soft voice whispered, "John, what's wrong?" 

"Nothin'." John couldn't control the shake in his voice. 

"It ain't nothin', John." Abigail sat up, meeting at eye level with John. 

_Don't bother her with this_ , a thought echoed through his head. _You already woke her up_. 

"It's nothin', Abi," John said, coldly. 

"I can tell when you're upset, John Marston," Abigail said, her voice steady and stern. "What's _wrong?"_

__

__

The sincere look in Abigail's eyes as she pried sent the dam crumbling down. John's breath hitched in his chest, feeling the heavy ache that he was free of in his dream start weighing him back down. 

A sob tore through him. 

John instinctively covered his mouth, and he tried to turn away from Abigail, but she pulled him close. 

Abigail's lip trembled as she held him — his shoulders shaking with silent cries. 

John was never one to openly show his emotions. He never had been. The overwhelming display of them, now — in the dead of night — nearly sent Abigail spiraling, herself. 

A small, pained sound escape John, and he choked it down. Abigail held him tighter, tears now streaming down her own face. 

After a some time, John's tears slowed. Abigail rested her chin on his shoulder, looking into his eyes — they were distant and staring at the hardwood floor of their ranch. 

"John?" She gave him a light squeeze. 

"Hm," He mumbled, turning to her. 

He looked exhausted. 

His cheeks were puffy and his eyes were bloodshot. 

"You . . . you have a bad dream, or somethin'?" She asked carefully. 

"No, it was-" John inhaled a breath, then let it out slowly. "-it . . . it _was_ good." 

"Good?" Abigail blinked the remaining wetness from her eyes to see him better. "Then, what you cryin' for, John?" 

There was no accusation — no _judgement_ — in her tone, but John still faltered. 

"You can tell me." Abigail reached up a hand to brush off a run away tear on John's cheek. 

"It s'okay," she reassured him when he didn't speak. _"You can tell me."_

"Because . . . I-" John's voice wavered, and he sighed, "'cause it ain't ever gonna come true." 

Abigail rubbed a comforting hand down John's back, and John leaned into her. 

They sat pressed up against one another in the dark of the night, holding on to each other tight. 

Silent- 

-careful not to wake Jack. 

**Author's Note:**

> if it makes y'all feel any better, i suffered writing this, too.
> 
> i cranked this out in a short amount of time, so i will likely return to edit it, but i hope everyone enjoys. let me know what you think! 
> 
> and of course, thank you for reading. ♥️


End file.
